


"I wish being a good person could erase the bad things I've done."

by Sweetloot



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, I really don't know what to tag this as, Some description of injury, a what if kinda thing, could possibly seen as preslash or something though that wasn't my intention, disregards some things, heart to heart, serious talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetloot/pseuds/Sweetloot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If Wash wasn't sure that they were alone in that room, he would have sworn he just got punched in the gut.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	"I wish being a good person could erase the bad things I've done."

**Author's Note:**

> Title and picture come from [here](http://asofterrvb.tumblr.com/post/87048117894).

He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. God, he hated that sound. It made sleeping difficult. Well, more difficult. It added an extra layer of annoyance to the half-awake-cold-sweat-out-of-breath nights he's been having since... a while, he's been having trouble sleeping for a while now. Though, he supposes, he was asleep before this moment, his mind a foggy mess of disjointed thoughts and blurry shapes with no real beginning or end and no answers as to why he can't remember going to bed in the first place, which was the most bizarre thing of all since Wash _always_ remembered things like that.

He rests for a while, eyes closed and breathing even. Eventually the sound of his blood in his ears dissipates and is replaced with...nothing? He can't hear Tucker in the room next to his, the sound of him stumbling around in the dark to get his Kevlar suit on because he refuses to wear it (or anything else, for that matter) to bed. He can't hear his mumbled curses or the sound of him accidentally dropping his armor when he decides to make the surely momentous trek to the other side of the room when he bothers to turn the light on. He can't hear the water running in the shower down the hall as Caboose sings loudly and off key to whatever happens to be floating around in that head of his. He doesn't hear the eventually screech and thud of the line of soap bottles hitting the tiled shower floor when Caboose accidentally knocks them over. In fact, he doesn't hear anything at all.

Washington shifts his head on his pillow, it scratches his cheek. That's...not right. His arms are numb, pins and needles shooting up his fingers past his elbows. He must have been laying like this for a while now, awkwardly lying on his face like a beached whale.

He attempts to open his eyes and immediately regrets it. Bright, white light piercing his retina like an ice-pick to the brain making him shut them again to dull the pulsing in his head. He keeps his eyes closed this time, tries to put his hands beneath him to lift up only to find his shoulders are pulled back, his hands tied. With a lot of undignified crawling and shifting, Wash eventually gets himself upright, his stomach churning and his brain swimming for his troubles.

Once his body feels less like it wants crawl in a hole and die does he brave opening his eyes again. The light feels less bright this time, a side-effect of his headache being turned down from _'let my brain liquefy out my ears'_ to _'I'm going to murder a small country'_. It's not a big improvement, but progress is progress.

He lets his eyes wander around the room, glancing over the bare walls, cement blocks painted white. The floor he was sitting on was gray concrete, rough with discolored areas that Wash didn't want to think about. There were no windows and only a singular metal door provided an exit, likely heavily guarded. 

His eyes continued to wander until they landed on a figure laying across the room, their back facing Wash. Whoever they are, they seemed pretty banged up. The person's shirt riding up, an array of bandages covering up any skin Wash would have seen.

He would have been struggling with the other person's identity for a while had the bright blonde mohawk not given it away.

“Donut? Donut! Hey, Donut, wake up!” Wash knew there was only one person on Red team with hair like that. He had overheard Grif and Simmons complaining about how long Donut took trying to get it to 'stick up just right'. Simmons had just sighed and said that he didn't understand why he fussed so much, given that he was just going to end up getting helmet-hair.

“Nhhh, get Lopez to do it.”

“No, Donut. It's me Washington!”

Donut lifts his head a little, not turning to face the agent. He still sounded groggy, “Wash? What're you doing in my room?”

Wash sighs, “I'm not in your room, Donut. We've been captured, are you alright?”

That seemed to wake Donut up. “What?!” He squawked, jerking to sit up only to hiss out a curse, settling back down on his uninjured side. “How did that happen? Where are we? Where are the others?”

“Just calm down, alright? Only Sarge was captured with us, I don't know where he is, but everyone else escaped with the Rebel Army. I don't know where we are, but it's most likely in some Federal Army base, assuming that Felix didn't sell us out to the next highest bidder.”

Donut sounded affronted on the mercenary's behalf. “Why would Felix do something like that? He seemed to like us.”

Wash rolled his eyes at the naivety. “He's a mercenary, Donut. He doesn't get paid to like us.”

“But he's the one that called us help!”

“Yes, he did, but I wouldn't put it below a mercenary to sell off one-half of the 'war heroes' to one side and the rest to the other. Until we have all the facts, we can't trust anyone.”

Wash had the feeling that Donut was giving him an unimpressed look. “Wow, somebody's pessimistic.”

“It's not pessimism, it's called being realistic.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Glass-Half-Empty.”

“Just, forget it. Are you alright? I can see bandages, how badly are you hurt?”

Donut shifts to sit up again, seemingly more aware of his injuries now, and gets into a sitting position without hurting himself more than he already is. “Oh, uh, not sure. But it's probably fine, I get blown a lot! Have you ever been blown before, Wash?”

If Washington could put his head in his hands, he'd be doing it now.

“Up.”

“What?”

“It's blown _up_ , Donut., not just – ugh, never mind, give me a second.” Wash rolls his shoulders, popping his back before relaxing his arms. He works his hands as low down as he can until he's sitting on them, then forces his tied hands forward, his side starting to flare up in pain as it pulls on what are likely stitches. He clenches his teeth, breathing harshly through his nose as he pulls his legs through the circle that his arms made, letting out a sigh once his hands are in front of him.

“Wow.”

Wash looks up to see Donut staring at him, slightly slack jawed. He quickly picks his jaw off the floor when he sees Wash looking, only to let out an impressed whistle. “Man, you are _really_ flexible. Did Doc teach you yoga?”

“Uh, no.” Wash had gotten over to where Donut was sitting. “The Freelancers were trained in techniques designed to help us should we ever be captured.”

“Really?” Donut sounded hopeful. “So that means you can get us out of here?”

“Not...exactly.” Wash avoided looking at Donut's eager expression, busying himself checking the bandages on Donut's side in case they started bleeding through. If the Fed's went through the trouble of cleaning them up, then they _should_ feel inclined to keep them from dying of blood loss or infection. Maybe. He'd probably be able to get a med-kit from one of the guards if he found anything amiss.

“That tone never means anything good – ow, watch it!”

“Well, we were mostly trained on how to escape capture if we still had our armor – and stop squirming.”

“And if you _didn't_ have your armor?

“Get tough or die.”

As Wash continued to work, he found that the kid was in pretty rough shape, and he did mean kid, just looking at the guy's doe eyes and baby face made Wash feel old. However, it wasn't hard to miss that, even though the private seemed young, that he'd been through a hell of a lot. The guy's youthful image was marred by scar tissue blooming across the side of his head, etching its way up his cheek and coming dangerously close to his eye, part of his ear missing from what was likely some sort of explosion. Wash was itching to ask about it, but he knew better than to ask another solider about their scars, especially since he knew he was responsible from some of them.

“Yikes, harsh.”

Wash just shrugs at Donut's comment, fixing Donut's shirt as soon as he's sure the younger solider isn't going to drop dead. “Well, you seem alright. Just try not to apply pressure to that side.”

“But I sleep best on that side.”

“You'll live.”

“Need me to check you out? Doc says I've got a gentle touch.”

“Erm, no, thanks, I'm good. Besides I don't think your....'gentle touch' would be very useful with your hands tied behind your back.”

“Oh.”

It's quiet after that, Wash deciding to sit down by the wall next to Donut instead of going back to the other side of the room. Wash had the feeling they were going to be stuck together for a while, might as well get used to it.

Wash was just starting to drift back to the last time he was locked up when Donut's voice jerked him out of his thoughts.

“I figured it out, you now.”

“What?”

“That you were the one that shot me.”

If Wash wasn't sure that they were alone in that room, he would have sworn he just got punched in the gut. Wash had been trying to reconcile what he did, tried to protect the people that he betrayed in order to clear his name, but it never seemed to be enough. No matter how hard he tried, he always seemed to find just one more thing that he fucked up. True, he had no idea who Donut was when he shot him, but that didn't make shooting him right. 

Donut continued to speak, unaware of the way his words twisted the mental knife in his head. 

“I mean, I don't really blame you. Okay, I do, or I did, but at the time it was just like 'oh no, there's the big scary guy trying to kill us!' And then the dude behind him shoots me, and then it was dark for a while. It wasn't until after I got all patched up that I started thinking about the whole thing.”

“Donut –“

“Nope, you shot me, I get to talk.”

Wash snapped his mouth shut.

“As I was saying, I started thinking, or rather I started listening. I knew you weren't Church, like they told the UNSC you were, obviously, but I knew I had heard your voice before, but I just couldn't place where. Simmons refused to tell me where I had heard it before, something about you being really mad if he did, which, now that I think about it, makes total sense since you've obviously been trying to hide it from me. I tried asking Sarge, Caboose, even Tucker! And they'd all just say you were Washington, which didn't help me at all. I even tried asking Lopez, but all he said was _'Él te disparaste, idiota.'_ But I didn't have time to chit-chat about the weather. It wasn't until I talked to Grif did he tell me that it was you who shot me. I asked him how he knew and he said that Simmons had told him, which I should have guessed. Those two tell each other practically everything, it's pretty cute actually.”

Wash didn't know what to say after all of that because, seriously, what were you supposed to say to the guy that you shot with the intention to kill? Sorry? Most of the people he's shot didn't get back up again.

“Listen, Donut, I don't know what to say. Sorry doesn't seem to cover it.”

“No shit it doesn't cover it, and did I say you could talk? It's still the Donut talking hour, now hush.”

Wash mentally sighed, looks like he was in for a verbal beating. It's the least he owed the guy, he supposed.

“I found out that you were the one that shot me, and I got really mad, and rightfully so! You tried to kill me! You tried to kill all of us, and now you were just waltzing around, free as a bird –”

That last part wasn't exactly fair. Wash had been sent to prison, expected to spend the rest of his life there (if they didn't execute him first, that is). Anyone would have jumped at the chance for freedom. 

Wash was used to only being able to rely on himself and, if he were being honest with himself, he felt a bit betrayed by the Reds and Blues while he was locked up. The one thing he had asked was that Ch – the Epsilon unit be turned into the authorities, that's it. Simple, easy, or so he thought. 

His plan for exposing what The Director had done, of all the atrocities that he had committed, of all the pain he had put Wash and his friends through, was botched and he was caught in the crossfire. So, yeah, he had put his trust in them and as a result he got burned. Wash had felt angry, hurt, _betrayed_ , a rinse and repeat cycle of emotions that he'd felt time and time again. 

Wash knew he wasn't exactly the victim here though. He had gotten the Reds and Blues involved, not because he really cared about their delusions about being in an actual war, but because he needed help completing his mission and willingness to help wasn't exactly something he had been worried about. He had dragged them along, manipulated them with promises of information and revenge, and, when that wasn't enough, with threats of bodily harm. 

But, despite all that, they had started to grow on him...a little. They weren't brave, or smart, or skilled, or all that helpful, really, but they were loyal and that was a trait Wash hadn't seen in a long time.

And then he got thrown into prison and that image of loyalty got shattered. 

He knew he wasn't their friend, not by a long shot, but, like he said, they had started to grow on him.

Then he was left to fend for himself again, left to make choices with actions based on hurt and anger, and, as a result, people got hurt along the way.

And one of those people were really pissed at him.

“– well, okay, maybe not free, exactly, what with everyone thinking you're dead and all, but you get my point! You tried to kill us! Like, really tied to kill us! Not like how the Blues' tried to kill us, but with actually skills! You know, the last time someone with any skill tried to kill me, I got a grenade lobbed at my head and the Blues' went down a member.”

Wash looked sharply at Donut. Well, that was unexpected. Explained the scar though.

“Hey, don't look at me like that, she lived. Well, she kinda lived. She turned into a ghost for a while then we found out she was an AI, but my point still stands.”

“Wait, wait, hold on. You killed Tex?”

“Don't look so surprised, I'm awesome!”

“Whatever you say.”

“ _Anyway_ , the whole point is you used us, manipulated us, hurt us, _almost killed us_ , and, frankly, broke a lot of my friends' trust in you –“

Wash cringed.

“– and I forgive you.”

What.

“What?”

“I forgive you, weren't you listening? Here I go pouring my heart out and you weren't even paying attention?”

“No, no, I heard you, but what I meant was why?”

Wash was....confused. He didn't fully understand why the guys, minus Donut, had forgiven him, but he had been grateful. Caboose had said it was because Wash had helped them before, Tucker agreeing and adding that they needed to 'even the teams'. They had given him their friend's armor, gone out of their way to help him when he all he did was cause them trouble, and in the end invited him to stay with them. The Reds, again, minus Donut, were content with having him there, most likely because they didn't give much of a shit either way.

Donut tilts his head back, rubbing the back of his head against the brick. “Because, I understand why you did what you did. Not that it makes it right, mind you, but I understand it. You were hurt so you lashed out. You wanted revenge so you took it. Plus, how could I hold a grudge now? You didn't _have_ to stay with us to fight off the Feds, you didn't _have_ to try and help us survive being stranded on an alien planet, _but you did_. And you sure as hell didn't need to put yourself in danger to save me from getting done in during that big fight against all those Texas-es.”

Donut inhales deeply, letting all the air rush out of him as he turns to look at Wash.

“You're trying to fix things, probably a whole lot of wrongs you did that I don't know about, and my being mad at you wouldn't help. So, I forgive you.”

Wash just nods dumbly, waiting for his brain to process everything that was said to him. To say that he was surprised would be an understatement. 

Forgiveness. 

Forgiveness was not something Wash was familiar with, not something he practiced often in his life. When South had shot him and left him for dead, forgiveness was not on the forefront of his mind when he saw her again.

Wash was not used to this, especially considering he didn't really believe that he deserved to be forgiven in the first place, but he would try.

It takes a moment for him to find his voice, and when he speaks it's quieter than he was expecting, “Thank you, Donut. That means a lot to me.” 

It wasn't exactly the most stirring response ever, but Donut seemed happy enough with it, smiling a big, dimpled grin at the ex-freelancer before letting the silence settle over them again.

As Wash was starting to learn, silences didn't last long around Donut.

“Sooooo, are you gonna teach me that trick you did with your handcuffs or what?”

**Author's Note:**

> I had trouble keeping Donut in character as serious conversation from him isn't something we see often in the show, but I tried my best. Also, Wash's response was troubling for me as getting inside that head of his can be a challenge for me. Hopefully I did this justice.
> 
> What Donut was quoting Lopez of saying was "He shot you, idiot." Hopefully I got that right. My Spanish isn't that great.
> 
> I _may_ do more with this, but it works as a stand alone piece for now.
> 
> Feel free to comment, I love hearing from you all.
> 
> P.S. Don't try that thing with the handcuffs that Wash did. I'm not entirely sure you wouldn't hurt yourself doing it.


End file.
